Fatal Decree (25 page)

“What happened to your guest?”

“He called each one of us by name, told us where we lived, our addresses. Making sure we understood that he could find us. He said he’d come kill us if he heard anything about his being with us on Friday.”

“And you believed him.”

“He wasn’t kidding.”

“Did you get a name?”

“From the guy? Hell no. He didn’t tell me and I wasn’t about to ask.”

“What do you know about the man who was killed while your crew was at his house?”

“Nothing. The cops took us in, interviewed us, and then I saw the television news. It said the man’s wife was killed last week or something.”

“The cops interview your whole crew?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you tell the cops you didn’t speak English?”

“I never said that. They interviewed me last, and I guess the officer just assumed I didn’t know English because she started out giving the interpreter the questions for me to answer. I just went along with it.”

“Could you identify the tattooed man if you saw him again?”

“Probably, but I’d be signing my own death warrant.”

“How did you know he was Guatemalan?”

“The tattoos are very distinctive. Everybody knows who those guys are.”

Jock had relaxed more as he questioned Suarez. He was standing now, and Suarez was sitting in the dirt. “Okay,” Jock said. “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to rat you out. What you’ve told me stays between you, me, and my friend here. But I’m going to need a description of this guy. Something that will tell me how to find him.”

“What about the cops?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“But you’ll have to tell the cops who told you about the Guatemalan.”

“No,” Jock said, “I won’t.”

“Then how are you going to arrest him?”

“Do I look like a man who arrests anybody?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Let’s just say that the dead man was my friend, and I’m not in the habit of letting people get away with killing my friends.”

The man was quiet for a beat, trying to decide what to do. His choices were limited. If he didn’t tell Jock what he wanted to know, his life was over. If he did tell Jock and the word got back to the Guatemalan, then he would die tomorrow or maybe the next day. Trust Jock or die now. The choice wasn’t really that hard, and I could see in his face that Chico had made his decision. “He didn’t have a right ear,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Jock.

“His right ear was missing. Like it’d been cut off. Only I don’t think so. More like he was born without it. A skin flap had been sewn over the ear hole. I don’t think they would have done that if he could hear anything out of it.”

“Do you know where the Guatemalans live?” Jock asked.

“I’ve heard they’ve got sort of a compound. East of here, but I’ve never been there.”

“Do you know an address?”

“No. Never heard one.”

“Okay, Chico,” Jock said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You keep your mouth shut about tonight and I’ll do the same. Nobody has to know we’ve talked. I don’t want the Guatemalans coming after you or your men.”

“If you go after the tattooed guy, he’ll know it was one of us who talked. He said he’d kill us all if one of us ever said a word.”

“Trust me,” said Jock. “That won’t happen. If I go after him, I’ll find him, and he’ll never bother anybody again. Ever.”

We walked down the block to Jock’s rental, a nondescript Chevrolet that he’d picked up at the Tampa airport when he’d arrived in Florida. He’d used one of the many aliases he always seemed to have access to, so if for some reason our tag number was checked, it’d come back as a car rented by Mr. Hertz to somebody who didn’t really exist.

“Why do you think the Guatemalan let those Mexicans live?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been cleaner if he’d killed them?”

“Maybe not. Even if he’d been able to dump the bodies quickly, people would have missed the dead guys and questions would have been asked. I think he just figured he’d scared them shitless and they wouldn’t ever mention anything to anybody. Even their best friends.”

“I guess you’re right. Are we going after him?” I asked.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“Far as I know. What’s next?”

“We need to find out where these guys live,” said Jock.

“I’ll call David Parrish in the morning,” I said. “He’ll know where they are, or he can get to somebody who does know.”

“Good idea. Ready to head home?”

“Let’s do it.”

I called Parrish early the next morning, Monday. He made a habit of being in the office before six each day, setting an example for his employees, he said. He didn’t know much about a Guatemalan gang, just that one existed. He said they were involved in the drug business and he would have an agent of the Drug Enforcement Agency get in touch with me.

Thirty minutes after I talked to Parrish, my phone rang.

“Matt,” a deep southern voice said. “This is Rufus Harris.”

Rufus was a DEA agent based in Orlando who tracked gangs throughout the middle district of Florida. Jock and I had worked with him before. “Good to hear from you, Rufus,” I said. “It’s been a couple of years.”

“Too long, Matt. I hear you and Jock are stirring things up again.”

“We’re being discreet.”

He laughed, way down in his belly, the sound rumbling along the airways that connected us. “You guys are about as subtle as your average freight train.”

I laughed. “We’re trying to do better.”

“The big man himself called me this morning. Told me you needed some information and I was supposed to tell you what I know. What’s up?”

“We’ve had three murders out here on the islands in the last week. We don’t know if they’re connected, but one of them appears to have been committed by a Guatemalan gang member. The Sarasota cops killed two of them in a shootout at the police station last week.”

“I heard about that.”

“On Friday,” I said, “a man named Gene Alexander, who worked for
Jock’s agency, was killed here on Longboat. The director thinks his murder might be connected to something Alexander was working on for the agency.”

“I take it this isn’t something you want me talking about in the break room.”

“No, and I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I thought you would. We’re pretty sure a Guatemalan gangbanger killed Alexander.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“Sorry, Rufus. I can’t tell you.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I understand. Don’t like it, but if Jock’s involved, I guess it has something to do with national security.”

“Right. Can you tell me anything about a Guatemalan gang operating in this area?”

“They’ve had a presence in Tampa for the past couple of years. We think they’re working with a Mexican cartel, probably as enforcers. If any of the locals working for the Mexicans get out of line, the Guatemalans take care of them.”

“What about Bradenton?”

“Yeah.” Rufus said, “They’ve sent some of their guys down there to help with the distribution.”

“Do you know where they live or hang out?”

“They’ve got a compound out east of I-75. We’ve got it under loose surveillance, but that’s about all we can do. We’ve never been able to infiltrate them. I’ll e-mail you directions and a map.”

“Do you know anything about one of them who doesn’t have an ear?”

“No ear? Like cut off in a fight?”

“Yeah, or bit off. May be a birth defect. We don’t know. That’s the only description we have.”

“I’ll take a look at the pictures we have. I think we’ve caught the ones in Tampa and Bradenton on film, but new ones show up all the time. They don’t seem to have any problem getting across the border.”

“Thanks, Rufus. I owe you one.”

“Hell, Matt. You already owe me three or four.”

I laughed. “What can I say?” The phone went dead.

My week was starting out with some sizzle. I’d know in a few minutes where the gangbangers lived and might even get a picture of our buddy with one ear. Not that I thought a picture would matter a lot, since the severed ear was a pretty distinctive identifier. Still, it might help.

Jock was running on the beach. I’d begged off, planning to go later. Sometimes running helps me concentrate on things, solve puzzles, get a new direction on a case or an issue. It had always worked for me when I was practicing law. But it only worked if I was running alone. I looked at my watch. It was only a few minutes after eight. I’d do my four miles on the beach later.

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the beach that day.

J.D. called a few minutes later. “Bagby died from an overdose,” she said.

“The guy who knifed you?”

“That one.”

“The lab got that done in a hurry.”

“They put it at the front of the line.”

“Does anyone know how the drugs got into the jail?”

“No, but it’s no big secret that the jails are full of drugs,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I was hoping he’d give us some information. What about talking to his lawyer? Any attorney-client privilege would have died with the client. Maybe Bagby told him something that he’d be willing to give us.”

“Good idea, Matt. I’ll call him. See if he’ll meet with me.”

“Let me know if you learn anything.”

“Did you and Jock find out anything last night?”

“Yeah. The Guatemalans killed Gene Alexander.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure.” I told her what we’d found out.

“How reliable is the information?”

“I think it’s solid. Our informant wasn’t holding anything back.”

“How do you want to handle getting the one-eared guy?” she asked.

“Jock’s out running. Probably thinking about that. I’ll let you know what he decides.”

“So you think we’ll just do what Jock decides?” There was steel in her voice. She wasn’t happy.

“I think this one is Jock’s call.”

“I don’t have to like it.” She hung up.

I put on my running clothes and headed for the beach. Jock still wasn’t back, but I thought he’d probably decided to take advantage of the beautiful day and run a little farther than usual. I walked up to Broadway and turned toward the Gulf, taking my time, enjoying the warm weather. A car turned off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Broadway and was coming toward me. It was riding low on its axles, traveling well under the speed limit of twenty miles per hour. Loud bass sounds emanated from the vehicle, so loud I thought I could feel them in my toes. As the car drew abreast of me, I saw two men in the front seat wearing the dark skin of the Central American Indian. The one on the passenger side, the one nearest me, had tattoos on his neck, visible above his collar. Bells began to ring in my head. Guatemalans? Maybe. If so, where the hell were they going?

I watched until they turned off Broadway, and then I began to run after them. They had turned onto the street that led to my house. That couldn’t be a coincidence. As I rounded the corner onto my street, I saw the car parked in front of a house two doors down from mine. I stopped.

The street was deserted, no one outside. The houses on one side of the street, the side I lived on, backed up to the bay, which could be seen through the gaps between the houses. What the hell were they up to? I stood and watched for a couple of beats and pulled out my cell phone. I called J.D. “There’re a couple of gangbangers parked just down from my house. Probably Guatemalans.”

“Call Jock. It’s his case.”

I cut her off, slamming the phone shut. I was about tired of her pissy moods. I knew she was stressed. People were trying to kill her and there was apparently a Guatemalan gang trying to take out citizens on her island and a government agency that was pulling strings and screwing up her investigations. But I was getting pretty damn tired of her sarcasm.

I dialed 911 and identified myself. “There is a strange car with a couple of odd-looking people parked just down from my house. Can you send a police car to check on it?”

“How do you mean ‘odd’?” she asked.

“Like they don’t belong here. They’re not islanders.”

“I’m dispatching now.”

I thanked her and hung up. Nothing gets the Longboat Key
authorities’ attention more quickly that a complaint about someone on the island who doesn’t belong. Somebody’s hackles rise, cops come, and IDs get checked. The uninvited and unwanted visitor gets the hint and leaves. It may seem a bit heavy-handed, but it makes us safer and the citizens never complain.

My phone chirped out the first bars of
The Girl from Ipanema,
J.D.’s special ring. I ignored it. It occurred to me that I’d never done that before. It took less than three minutes for the cop car to turn onto my street. I waved him down and leaned in the window.

“What’ve you got, Matt?” asked the officer, a man I’d known for several years.

“Not sure, Dean. There’re a couple of guys in that lowrider parked up there who I think might be Guatemalan gangbangers. From the same bunch who tried to take J.D. and me out downtown last week. I didn’t want to walk into some kind of trap.”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

He looked at me, taking in my running shorts and T-shirt, chuckled and said, “Guess not.”

“Dean,” I said, “if those guys are who I think they are, you’re going to need some backup out here.”

He was punching data into the computer attached to his dashboard. In a moment, the screen filled with words. He looked for an instant and then said, “The car’s registered to somebody named Miguel Malindez in Tampa. Mean anything to you?”

I shook my head as he keyed his microphone and called for another patrolman. He listened and said, “Rory’s on her way. She’ll come in from the other side and block the car.”

Dean got out of the cruiser and stood talking to me, watching the lowrider. If the occupants saw us, they ignored us. In a couple of minutes, another cruiser turned the corner, coming from the opposite direction, and stopped, blocking the street.

I heard a car rounding the corner behind us, turned, and saw J.D.’s Camry coming up the street. She stopped and got out, walked over to us. “Sorry, Matt,” she said. “What’s going on?”